Somewhere, Somehow, Maybe
by define-serenity
Summary: [Sebastian/Blaine] "Do you think there's a world out there where this lasts? Us?" Blaine looks at Sebastian sideways. "You mean like an alternate reality?"


**author's notes:** written for **Seblaine Spring Fling 2018**.

 _._

 **Somewhere, Somehow, Maybe**

.

.

Pluto died first.

Then Neptune.

Uranus.

Saturn's rings and Jupiter.

Asteroids destroyed Mars.

One by one, every moon and planet in the solar system disappeared, all of them black holes that would coalesce into a unified singularity in due time. For months Earth has been plagued by solar radiation and increased tectonic activity, the planet soon to follow its brothers.

"It's starting."

Sebastian hands him a glass of champagne and pours himself one, eyes cast up at the sky as it breaks into colors no humans eyes have ever been able to behold; the heated anger of a dying sun, stars blinking out of existence one by one in the inky dead of space.

"Do you think there's a world out there where this—?"

Blaine looks at Sebastian sideways.

"Lasts?" he asks. "Us?"

 _All of us_?

Tears shine in Blaine's eyes, though betray no sorrow over what's coming.

"You mean like an alternate reality?"

Blaine shrugs, unsure what he means. Maybe a universe where they weren't quite so underprepared when they first met, or where neither of them endured years of unhappiness before running into each other again.

If universes can expand and collapse, surely there are others out there that didn't have to end.

Where they didn't have to end so soon.

.

All too soon, their fifth date draws to a close. Yellow and orange make way for a startling deep blue, trapped between the low-rise buildings on either side of the street. Blaine lives on the second floor in a modest three-bedroom apartment, of which he's thus far only seen the front door adorned with a silver 201.

He liked that. He was equally protective of his private life.

"I had a great time," Blaine says, while his eyes draw to that front door, eager to get inside and read Katie her bedtime story.

"And you still sound surprised."

Did Blaine think cracks would start to show? He's not a perfect man, and he comes with a lot of baggage, but who doesn't at this point in their lives? Blaine has smiles that turn sad sometimes, a tan line around his ring finger slowly fading, but despite that they've both opened themselves up to something new, something surprising.

"Rachel doesn't have the best track record when it comes to setting me up."

He laughs, wondering if that crazy-eyed-mom-of-two Berry ever showed any cracks.

"I'm going to want that story at some point."

"That's going to take _at least_ another three dates," Blaine teases, nothing sad behind the smile that follows, but rather mischief that tickles all over his skin.

"You drive a hard bargain, Blaine Anderson," he says, cheeks heating, and he can't believe this man is making him _blush_ , of all things, the more practical side of his brain realizing he'll need to invest in a professional babysitter, rather than the neighbors' teenage daughters whenever they happen to have time.

"Sebastian?"

He hums, "Hmm?" as he's caught in the splendor of Blaine's eyes, unable to organize his thoughts.

Ever since Owen came into his life there hasn't been a whole lot of time to organize anything, which has made dating exceedingly difficult. Blaine Anderson, however, moved to the same rhythm, tied to his daughter's needs and occasional whim; it hasn't made dating each other easy, but it's made the time they did get to spend together all the more meaningful.

Blaine's honey-hazel eyes flicker across his face. "Kiss me?"

He trips an involuntary step forward in answer, eyes drawing down to Blaine's mouth. "Is that a question?"

"Kiss me," Blaine breathes, eyes half-lidded, before he's the one being kissed — Blaine rises on his toes and brings their lips together, sweet and soft yet fearless; they both know what they want out of life, made too many wrong choices to repeat old mistakes. That's why this took five dates, and getting through the door might take another dozen more, but that's okay.

This man, right here, might well be worth the wait.

.

It's a lie, like he always feared it would be. His mom warned him, and even his little sister told him to watch out, because getting what he wanted after so many years could easily turn out to be a disappointment.

He learned the taste of disappointment long ago, at a table at the Lima Bean, at the bottom of a broad winding staircase; it's a trap that caught him unaware each and every time, that bitter sting at the back of his tongue too difficult to swallow because it were his own choices that led him there.

Led him here.

Blaine sits, on a stool at the kitchen island, someone far smaller than the man he'd grown into, someone who reminds him of that bashful schoolboy he was so taken with at sixteen.

He'd had a crush on the boy, but the man—

He never thought he'd be the one to make him fall into the same old trappings.

"Tell me," he asks, arms crossed over his chest, leaned back against the kitchen counter lest his knees give out. "Did he kiss you, or did you kiss him?"

Did it matter? Three days have passed since Rachel's party and that tells him enough; if Kurt had kissed Blaine and left him unaffected Blaine would've said something, and if Blaine kissed Kurt— well.

"Guess I was lucky to get any time with you at all."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you're still in love with him." He meets Blaine's hazel eyes, the same eyes he swore spelled out his love for him just days ago. "You never stopped. I was just the guy around to pick up the pieces."

"Don't say that."

Blaine shoots out of the stool and rounds the kitchen island, making a beeline for him as if a fire has been lit under his feet. "Sebastian, you— you saved my life," he says, hands rising but undecided where to settle. "When I had no one, I had you, and— you have no idea what that means to me. What you mean to me."

" _I love you_ , Blaine," he says, and places Blaine's hand over his heart, where it beats out his letdown in morse code. Can't he see? Blaine knows what it means for him to say those words, how far he's come since high school when it comes to opening up his heart. How could Blaine, _of all people_ , dismiss that so easily?

"Can you say the same thing?" he asks.

Blaine's hand forms into a fist. "I'm sorry."

His eyes close.

"I'm so sorry," Blaine whispers, pushes his lips to his shoulder, his other hand wringing around his biceps.

There isn't a doubt in his mind Blaine will relearn the taste of disappointment.

That's what makes it a trap.

.

The first warm press of lips pushes up to his occipital bone, Sebastian's nose lingering in his curls, bound to have lost their raspberry scent; the second along his mandible, where two-day old stubble grated stubbornly against the pillow his head rested on.

Then, a kiss to the zygomatic arch, tickling close to his eye, before Sebastian's lips reach back for his temporal bone.

"Wake up, sleepy," his boyfriend whispers, but the warmth makes him curl tighter into the thick cushions beneath him, air popping along his spine; thoracic, lumbar, sacrum. Just a few more minutes, that's all he needs, maybe some more kisses, and he'll be right as rain.

Stretching his legs, his feet hit obstacles that shouldn't be there, as do his knees, and then he realizes—

This isn't his bed.

He jolts upright. "What time is it?"

What day is it?

 _Where is he_?

Oh God. Oh no. He had one of the most important tests of his life today; if he doesn't pass he can't start his residency and his five-year plan can go through the shredder. What was he thinking staying up so late? What was he _doing_ staying up so late? Fragments of the night before swim before his eyes, of colored flashcards and yellow markers, several heavy volumes of medical dictionaries spread open on the coffee table.

None of which are still there.

"Relax."

A hand brushes down his back.

"It's six am," Sebastian says, and stands, pushing a kiss to the top of his head. Parietal bone. "All your stuff is on that desk you never use. You fell asleep on the couch."

Glancing over his shoulder, the charming little desk he insisted they cram into their tiny one-bedroom apartment looks like it's about to succumb under the weight of his books. It's the chair that's the problem, really, not offering enough lumbar support during his countless hours sat studying behind that desk.

The toaster pops out two pieces of warm bread, its scent drawing him to the kitchen; the table's been set for two, and there's fresh coffee.

"You got up for me?" he asks, scratching the back of his head.

"Your alarm clock took care of that."

"Oh God," he whines, and folds his arms around Sebastian from behind, "I'm sorry", squishing his face in between Sebastian's shoulders. Romboid minor. Romboid major. Trapezius.

"I'm sure I can find some way for you to make it up to me," Sebastian says, segueing straight into, "Coffee?" without missing a beat.

He nods and yawns. "What would I do without you?"

"Be chronically late to all your classes, flunk out, and be forced to masturbate every morning because no man in his right mind would fuck you in your under caffeinated state."

"That"—he slaps at Sebastian's ass—"was a rhetorical question."

" _Oh_."

"Come shower with me." He bites playfully into Sebastian's shoulder, and slips a hand into his boyfriend's boxers. Gluteus medius. Superior gemellus. Piriformis. "I'm going to need those hands."

.

He smashes into the double swing doors within seconds of arriving at the hospital, giving way to the impact his body makes with them. His feet carry him toward the front desk on autopilot, steered by one thought and one thought only.

 _Please, let him be okay._

"I'm sorry, hi," he addresses the nurse at the front desk, his mouth too dry, his eyes too wet and swollen. "I got a call my husband was here?"

"Your name, sir?"

"Anderson-Smythe. Blaine." He swallows but can't pass whatever lodged itself in his throat half an hour earlier, hanging up the phone on a call he prayed he'd never receive again. "Can you tell me if he's okay?"

"Sebastian Anderson-Smythe," the nurse says. "Room 102, first floor."

"Thank you," he breathes and sets off running, down the hall, up the stairs, conquering two steps at a time. If Sebastian could see he'd probably get an earful, his husband grown exceedingly envious and angry in the wake of his accident, but he can't waste any thoughts on that now. He needs to know. He needs to see.

He reaches Room 102 and takes a moment to catch his breath, nervous, terrified, envious of people who could control their emotions when they wanted to.

"Sebastian." He pushes through the door, studying his husband in the hospital bed, vividly reminded of the last time he did so.

This time, there isn't a machine helping Sebastian breathe, no heart monitor beeping, no fresh bruises on his face or arms. Sebastian lies on the bed, on top of the sheets, still wearing the clothes he left the house with.

He walks over, registering the tears in Sebastian's eyes, along with the fresh cast around his leg.

"What happened?"

Last he saw of Sebastian he'd grabbed his crutches and stormed out, leaving his cell phone and keys behind, and, selfishly, he'd been so tired of fighting he hadn't found the strength to go after him.

He loved his husband more than anything in the world, but even he had his limits.

"I—" Sebastian chokes out, and faces away. "I tried to take it off."

A tears runs down Sebastian's cheek.

"I'm here," he whispers, as his fingertips trip along Sebastian's hairline.

In recent weeks it hadn't been too hard to notice that somehow Sebastian was going through several stages of grief at the same time; some mornings he woke up and stayed in bed all day, while others he'd be on the phone with his doctors arguing about alternate treatments.

He'd tried to walk on his leg too soon after his initial surgery and popped his stitches, which had led to angry outbursts no matter how small he made himself. Sebastian couldn't stand to be waited on, washed, dressed, helped to the bathroom or down the stairs, but also realized he needed help.

It's been a tough few months.

He kisses Sebastian's cheek as a sob wrecks through his husband's body, followed by another, and another. And another.

Nothing about his recovery will be easy, and Sebastian will never dance professionally again, but at least, finally, he's crying.

.

"I do."

Blaine beams from ear to ear as the wedding band slides around his finger, a perfect fit, a perfect match to his husband's.

From this day on, he's Mr. Anderson-Smythe.

.

"I do."

Sebastian smiles and slips the silver wedding band around his boyfriend's finger, _his husband_ by the end of the ceremony.

Mr. Smythe-Stohl.

.

Not every universe will be so cruel, and not every universe will be so kind. Some will be tragically indifferent, treat them as cosmic specks drifting around each other like satellites, while in yet others they'll be finely-tuned to be the other's be-all end-all.

In some they'll be a husband, a father, hopefully single, and within the endless assemblage of universes those few with unhappy endings are cosmic specks in and of themselves.

.

"We have to split up."

His eyes dart between the squad car at the end of alley and the unrelenting shadow of the night, echoing with children's screams.

"Flash!" the detective calls, gunshots sounding over his radio.

"Are you sure?" Sebastian asks.

"You're the only one who'll make it in time. Just be careful."

Sebastian's signature smirk shines like a beacon in the dark. "I always am, Little Bird."

"Sebastian," he exasperates, never quite at ease when there are guns and bullets involved, which given Sebastian's track record isn't unreasonable. Ironically, Sebastian's feet have a way of running away with him without his brain getting any say.

"Hey now"—Sebastian lowers his voice—"No names when we're in disguise."

He clasps a hand around Sebastian's neck and brings their mouths together, the red cowl clicking against his dark mask, an amazed 'Okay then,' coming from the detective who'd tracked them down.

Sebastian makes no further smart-ass comment, but bumps their noses together. "I'll find you," he whispers, despite the fact that he's not the one who can see in the dark.

But it's a promise he holds him to.

.

"Be strong," Sebastian whispers, and squeezes his shoulders, planting a discreet kiss against his hair lest the gesture catches any unwanted attention.

He hasn't belonged here for over twenty years and he hates that part of him still felt obliged to be here. It's the proper thing to do, he supposes, when one loses a parent, even if it's an estranged one.

Still, he wouldn't be here if it weren't for Sebastian.

He walks up to the pulpit weak in the knees, held upright simply because he knows Sebastian's eyes will never leave him. Today he'll play the dutiful son. Tomorrow he'll go back to the life he'd chosen.

"My father, Derek Anderson,—"

.

"Good morning," Sebastian mutters into his skin, teeth raking gently down his throat, hands inside his boxers cupping his ass.

His own rake through Sebastian's hair, steering his mouth back to where it belongs; their lips trade soft lazy kisses, while the coffee machine sputters and ribbons of bacon crackle in the pan on the stove.

It's the first time their apartment smelled like a home.

Sebastian toes tick along his socked feet. "That's going to burn."

" _I'm_ going to burn," he whines, hips bucking into Sebastian's searching for friction.

Sebastian's laughter pops against his chest. "We wouldn't want that," he says, right before he sinks down to his knees.

.

The promenade is all but abandoned this time of year, the early winter freeze too cold to attract any locals, and Westerville generally remained devoid of tourists. Still, neither he or Blaine seemed keen on returning to Dalton hours before curfew, and so they'd settled on a bench by the water, warming their hands around two scalding hot cups of coffee. With a little dash of Courvoisier.

"Anyway, that's why I took up boxing," Blaine finishes his story, one he now wished he hadn't asked him about at such a delicate time in their budding relationship.

He'd wondered about Blaine Anderson the moment he appeared at Dalton, of course, his arm still in a sling at the start of the year due to a -what all the teachers claimed- was a sports injury he sustained over the summer.

Now he knows better.

Blaine spoke in no uncertain terms, however, which makes him think he's getting all the help he needs in dealing with what happened at his previous school.

"It's why I said no when you first asked me out."

"What changed your mind?"

Blaine looks at him sideways, eyebrows rising, an amused smile curling around his mouth.

God, that mouth.

"You've asked me out every day for the past three weeks," Blaine says, like it's a strange occurrence; surely Blaine knows the effect he has on people. There were bound to be a few broken hearts -male of female- in Blaine's past.

"I'm nothing if not consistent."

"I realized I can't live someone else's truth," Blaine answers in earnest. "I have to live my own."

He takes a careful sip from his coffee, choking when Blaine adds, "Plus, you're kind of hot."

Countless of broken hearts, he thinks, _countless_ , and Blaine doesn't even realize.

"Are you blushing?" Blaine asks, his laughter so consuming he all but answers 'Yes' right away.

He laughs and raises his hands in surrender; defeated, outplayed, entirely enamored by this sophomore Warbler who has ingratiated not only the teachers with his sharp and inquisitive mind, but many other Dalton students. It's awfully kind of Blaine to think him immune to those same charms, but as it turns out—

"Here I thought you were just a bashful schoolboy for me to corrupt."

Their eyes meet in the light of dusk, Blaine's shining golden. How do eyes do that, he wonders, how can his hormones play with reality so vividly? Water laps at the embankment, but all he hears is the beat of his own heart.

"I'm not that bashful," Blaine says, voice dropping an octave.

He leans in unthinking, but there's nothing rushed to it, meeting Blaine's warm lips somewhere halfway between them, a surge of heat dispelling the cold.

.

He wakes up with half his leg hanging over the side of the bed, sheets tossed in a heap over him, and the bed dipping under the weight of another person. Opening one eye he establishes it is in fact morning, and, turning his head, he confirms he is most definitely hung over, two separate headaches throbbing at each of his temples.

It's been four years since high school and countless of keggers, and he still didn't hold his liquor any better.

"You should probably drink a lot of water," a voice sounds from the other side of the room.

Blinking open both eyes, he finds his date from the night before sitting on his desk chair, tying his shoelaces. Sebastian, was it?

Impressions of the night before start coming back to him; the first beer, Sebastian catching his eye on the dance floor, dancing for hours and then somehow still stumbling to his dorm room without tripping over their own feet.

"Are you okay?" Sebastian asks, seemingly unaffected by the copious amounts of alcohol he consumed the night before.

"Yeah," he murmurs, remembering the distinct feel of Sebastian between his legs, his mouth on him, his fingers inside of him. "Are you leaving?"

"I have class," Sebastian says, shrugging into his jacket, "and Dr. Mitchell will kill me if I'm late again."

Blaine turns on his back, his skin sticky and sweaty, his sheets damp. It had been a rather long night, an _amazing_ night, and he does wonder what it would be like to sleep with Sebastian with his blood alcohol content at a somewhat lower level.

"Just in case this was more than a one-off"—Sebastian stares down at him—"I programmed my number into your phone."

Sebastian winks. "Later, killer."

.

"...there are theories that posit that everything that ends at some point simply reoccurs."

Sebastian swoops down and captures Blaine's lips, earning him a small surprised squeak followed by Blaine melting into his body. It's one of his favorite things in the world, how Blaine seemingly succumbs to his affections, when it's really him that falls for Blaine a little harder every time they kiss. Or every time he pushes those dark-rimmed glasses back up his nose. Or he goes off on a rant about the universe and its randomness and how their very existence is nothing more than a game of chance.

"What was that for?" Blaine asks, trying to catch his breath.

"No reason."

If the observable universe is nothing but a game of chance, he's one lucky bastard.

.

"Do we literally have to be in your closet?" Sebastian grumbles, folding his growing legs beneath him one uncoordinated limb at a time.

"My mom walks in on us all the time."

Sitting down on his closet floor seems indeed a little on the nose, especially considering what they're planning, but his mom never knocks no matter how many times he asks her, and she's walked in on him with his hand beneath the sheets far too many times. Of course, his mom being who she is she thought it all natural and _a thing that boys do_ , but he doubts she'd be as open minded about this.

"When we're gaming!" Sebastian cries in frustration, though he suspects this really has more to do with his unnatural growth spurt than it does with the closet. Within a year's time Sebastian grew a head taller than him, and it'd come accompanied with all the associated growing pains. Despite now being the tallest boy in their class, it'd made Sebastian oddly insecure.

"We're not playing games now."

"No, we're—"

Sebastian's lips press together.

Like his best friend he's not sure what he'd call this either, whether this falls under boyish curiosity or experimentation, or finding an honest answer to a question that's been raging through him for some time now. He's also not sure the answer would be the same for Sebastian.

"You want to do this or not?"

"Would I be in here with you if I didn't?"

"I'm not going to kiss you if you're going to be like this."

"Like what?"

"Like _you_."

Sebastian huffs, "That's it", and stands up, batting lint off his trousers before disappearing back into his bedroom.

"Sebastian, don't go." He soon follows. "We said we'd try this."

Why did they though? Why was he so convinced it had to be Sebastian and not the cute boy down the street? Or Jeremiah from the store? Why did it have to be his best friend since childhood, the boy who knows him better than anyone else, the one boy he couldn't stand to lose?

"We pinky swore!" he still calls, because he's never tempered his pride around Sebastian before and he's not about to start now. Sebastian does insist on being stubborn, and two can play that game. His mom likes to joke that's why they get along so well.

Sebastian sighs. "Then do it," he says, closing the distance between them so fast he jerks back and his back hits the wall.

"Kiss me," Sebastian says, his hands landing on either side of his head.

"I—"

Caught by his best friend's body his mouth runs dry. Sebastian's grown so much this past year; he'd always been long and lean, but puberty had filled out his shoulders, his thighs and calves, and he'd be a liar if he said the reason his hand sometimes slipped beneath his sheets wasn't because he'd pictured Sebastian naked.

It hasn't been easy; besides being Sebastian's friend he'd become taken with all the small changes too — the cracks in his voice, the short sprouts of facial-hair-that-could, and it'd created a huge gaping hole of uncertainty. Did he _like_ -like Sebastian?

Drawing in a single breath, he steadies himself. "Okay," he whispers, and hesitantly places sweaty hands along Sebastian's waist.

Sebastian shudders, and when their lips do meet somewhere halfway in between them, like a lot of things between them do, it's not boyish curiosity or experimentation, rather it's an implicit answer to all their questions. Maybe that's why it had to be Sebastian. There are no secrets between them, no lies, no stories untold; Sebastian gets to see him like no one else has, or ever will. One pinky-swear didn't necessarily make a promise but it put them on the same page.

He _like_ -liked Sebastian.

And Sebastian _like_ -liked him back.

Sebastian's hand cups his cheek, soon followed by the other, and the tip of his tongue tickles along his lips; heat surges down his spine and goosebumps erupt all over his skin, and he swears he'll never kiss any other lips again.

(They're foolish kids in a world that will never end, infinitely looped to come around to this moment again and again, an occurrence within a recurrence.)

.

"You mean like an alternate reality?" Sebastian asks.

Blaine shrugs.

He takes a sip from his champagne, not quite as bitter as he'd feared, and strokes a finger along the tattooed wedding ring around his ring finger. Not a different them, he muses; Blaine isn't asking for a chance to get this right, not even a second chance at all.

But a _them_ that lasts beyond this point, a them that gets a proper wedding and a proper wedding band, a honeymoon, a them that might even go on to have kids.

A them where this isn't the end.

He catches Blaine's honey-hazel eyes and smiles, "God, I hope so", leaning forward into a kiss. Their last one.

The world ends, and it keeps ending, and it will end again, one finite universe after the other. But in this one, right here, despite their initial sightless abandon and years of unhappiness, they did find each other; they lived and loved, and they kissed.

Oh God, did they kiss.

.

"Blaine Anderson," he says, and pulls his right hand from his pocket, holding it out to the ex-Warbler casually wandered into one of their rehearsals. "Sebastian Smythe."

"Hi-i," the bashful schoolboy stutters, shaking his hand. "Are you a freshman?"

He smirks. "Do I look like a freshman?"

.

(Somewhere, out there, they still are.)

.

.

 **fin**

.


End file.
